


Blackbird flies

by GrantaireandHisBottle



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: M/M, Stuck between Life and Death, angel - Freeform, raven wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/pseuds/GrantaireandHisBottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a person is in danger, his body tries to protect itself not only physically, like the sudden ability to run very fast, but also mentally. In the moment of risk the brain starts working faster, trying to find the solution of how to survive. That causes the adrenalin in the blood system. On the other hand a brain can fall into a stupor, because of the realization of the danger.</p><p>Grantaire’s mind works faster when he is under the threat of being killed by two blocks, who decide to rob him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackbird flies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibbyliv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/gifts).



> I used Lenka's song as well as the Beatles one) I was so tired from my studies, so this appeared in my head. 
> 
> Sorry my English.

When a person is in danger, his body tries to protect itself not only physically, like the sudden ability to run very fast, but also mentally. In the moment of risk the brain starts working faster, trying to find the solution of how to survive. That causes the adrenalin in the blood system. On the other hand a brain can fall into a stupor, because of the realization of the danger.

 

Grantaire’s mind works faster when he is under the threat of being killed by two blokes, who decide to rob him. It is a really stupid situation for everyone who knows the cynic. He isn’t rich; his belongings are paints and canvas with a bottle of cheap whiskey and an infinitive amount of love to the golden-haired man. That’s all. But two strangers have seen a young man, walking down the street in one of the dirty, fallen borough of Paris. Where hunger and need leads people’s actions.

 

One minute he was walking slowly not so far from the Musain, his head heavy because of thoughts and doubts, because of the bright image of Apollo in the middle of the cafe, of self disgust and the last argue with Enjolras, of alcohol with sarcasm taste, which makes the brain more drunk then the best kind of vodka.

 

And then two shades appeared in front of him; in the darkness their faces were hardly visible. The Artist sighed. “Good evening, gentlemen. If you want my money, then I am sorry. I don’t have the place where to spend this night, so there is no use from me.”

 

The first one made a step closer to the thin figure of R and grabbed his wrist, while the second one took Grantaire’s bag. The cynic quietly laughed. “Of course, oil paints do cost some money, but I’ve almost finished them, so_” the man, who was holding his hands out of sudden punched Grantaire’s face. Immediately R felt warm, sticky liquid on his upper lip. That fact made him laugh even more. “Anything else? Oh, yeah, my whiskey. Just to let you_ Ouch.” His nose pitifully crunched. “It tastes horrible.”

 

The second man threw away Grantaire’s bag and with anger in his every move turned around. “Do you speak _” he squeezed R’s neck and it became a real problem for the cynic. He unconsciously tried to break away, but strangers were too strong and the grip on his neck was too fearful. 

 

It was dark on the street, but Grantaire realized that the darkness which appeared in front of his eyes was different. There was no air left in his lungs; a bitter taste on his lips was like the Death’s kiss. 

 

He didn’t feel the hit on his chest; didn’t realized that they pushed him down and ran away. 

 

Actually Grantaire didn’t feel anything. Or heard. Because he died in that moment, when the last breath was squeezed out his throat. 

 

It is believed that there is Hell, Heaven or Perdition. R always was sure he would go to Hell. But he opes his eyes he sees Musain. _Oh, great, then I am not dead, I suppose._

 

He doesn’t feel pain, but he does feel himself strange. Grantaire sits up and touches his face. Again there is really strange feeling. Like there is something missing. 

 

“Grantaire?”

 

The sound of his own name makes him jump. As he turns his head he notices a boy sitting next to him on the chair. R narrowed his eyes; second later he realizes that the boy looks exactly like he was looking when he was ten. But then he rolls his eyes, because the boy has wings on his back.

 

“Grantaire.” The boy repeats, looking at R with his big, blue eyes.

 

“I don’t talk with strangers. Especially with strangers who has wings on their back.” Second later he closes his eyes. “I am never going to drink that much again. Green fairies, riding on a dragons in a porn movie in my laptop, yeah, I can manage that. Even I, looking like an Anglo-Saxon monk, is more or less normal comparing to the Angel, who is my little copy.”

 

The boy glances back at his raven wings. “They were white at the beginning, but then turned black. As the boy grows up. Please, Grantaire, we have very little time.” The little R-looking angel or whatever he is tries to touch Grantaire’s hand, but the student jerks from it. 

 

“Don’t!” R breathes heavily, staring at the creature near him. “Don’t touch me.” He whispers.

 

The dark-haired boy is sitting on the chair, legs high above the floor. A sudden wind plays with his inky curls. He could look like a normal kid, but beautiful wings on his back... R sighs. He is afraid of the kid, still he cannot explain why. “I am dead, right? Those guys killed me.”

 

Little-R nods with sad expression on his sad face.

 

“That sucks. I hoped I would die protecting....” the cynic pauses. “Protecting….Whom?”

 

The Angel’s gaze peers in Grantaire’s eyes. “For whom were you fighting?”

 

 _No, Grantaire!! Jesus, come one wake up!!_

 

The Artist frowns. Something very important is slipping from him, from his mind. “I_I am not sure. Where am I?”

 

The angel jumps from the chair and makes several steps, observing the place. “You tell me.”

 

Grantaire licks his lower lip. “If I am dead, why do I feel something?” he suddenly gasps as the pain in his chest becomes worse.

 

 _One, two, three…Grantaire, you egoistic bastard, breathe!! You can’t get rid of me that quick without explanations!!_

 

The boy turns his head slightly, his gaze wonders far away. “You can’t leave, because there is business for you down here.”

 

The cynic laughs bitterly. “I never had business. I wasn’t living, I existed. Without aim and friends_” a something, which reminds him a piece of memory, flies across his mind. Different names. And faces. 

 

_Don’t you dare to die, R!! I won’t let you!!_

Stop, stop, please, you cannot do anything…

No…no!!

Too late. It’s too late, stop it. 

 

The little boy with dark wings reaches out his hand. “You can leave if you are sure that there are no one who will cry for you.” He is looking without blinking. The child’s gaze is so cold. “Grantaire, are you sure?”

 

_Please, please, come back…_

 

The cynic tries very hard to remember his life. Alcohol. Terrible taste on his lips. Yes, I can remember that. 

“What was the reason of your drinking, Grantaire?”

 

My life, I suppose. It was a bad one. Useless. 

 

He grimaces as his chest aches again.

 

_R…COME BACK!!!!_

 

But there was someone. A very important someone. 

 

“Who was it, Grantaire?”

“I_can’t recall. Someone who is as free as a bird, as neat as a word.” He hides his face in hands, realizing that he is crying. “Someone…I can’t…Let’s go away…I want to leave this place.” A golden shine in front of his eyes, making his entire existence trembles. “As sweet as a song, as right as a wrong…”

 

He shakes his head, falling on his knees. “As pretty as a picture hanging from a fixture. Strong like a family,strong as I want to be…Who is that person? Whose lips were unreachable for me? As warm as the sun…Stop it!! I can’t…Help me!! as scary as the sea, as hot as fire, cold as ice…Sweet as sugar and everything nice.”

 

The Angel is standing near silently. They still have time. 

 

_I hate you…I never said that you were important, but I never meant that you were not. I was just too proud…And now I can’t even tell how much I…._

 

Grantaire opens his eyes. “I am ready. I will follow you.” He stands up, his voice very calm. “No matter where. I don’t care.”

 

_I love, you, Grantaire. And I was a bloody idiot for not saying this to you every day…Forgive me…_

 

The cynic touches his lips by his fingertips. “What was that?”

 

“You tell me.” The Angel simply replies. “What did you feel?”

 

A hesitation. “A kiss.”

 

“You can’t leave, because there is business for you down here.” He repeats, his wings trembling. 

 

Suddenly the cold in Grantaire’s eyes vanishes. “Enjolras. Enjolras is free as a bird, cold as an ice, sweet a song, his eyes are scary as a sea.” His head jerks. “I can’t leave him. I still have too much sarcasm in my head which I want to share with him.”

 

The black wings of the Angels become less visible. “Say that again, Grantaire.”

 

“I need to come back_ I want to come back to Enjolras and die another day, fighting for him. I want to die by his side.” He says that slowly, realizing the importance of his words. 

 

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
 _Take these broken wings and learn to fly_  
 _All your life You were only waiting_  
 _for this moment to arise_

 

He opens his eyes and sees golden curls, amber eyes with crystal water inside them. He feels a hug and then a kiss and he is sure that for a second on his back were black wings. 

 

“You called me an egoistic bastard, Enjolras?”


End file.
